


Flavourful

by brutumfulmen



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bad Flirting, Established Relationship, Fine Dining, Love is Stored in the Wholegrain Pasta, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25946371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutumfulmen/pseuds/brutumfulmen
Summary: There’s an interesting difference between how Crowley cooks Aziraphale’s favourite meals and how the rest of the world cooks them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 65





	Flavourful

**Author's Note:**

> Something light and pointless to kick off the coming wave.

At times Aziraphale wondered when Crowley had found time to learn some of the things he did. Notably his ability to cook, which Crowley did in so passionate a fashion that Aziraphale never knew what dish would be set before him, with the chaos of their kitchen as the backdrop to Crowley’s dramatic, achingly earnest presentation.

He adored it all, and the meal was impeccable each time.

Despite his preference for the familiarity of their usual restaurants and eateries, in the past year of their relationship he’s found himself to be quite caught up in the romance of it all. In fact, he had awoken this morning to the other side of their bed empty but still warm, already looking quite forward to what Crowley might make for him today.

Instead of this, which was typically followed by even more romantic endeavours the likes of which might be experienced at the table or some other vaguely horizontal surface in their home, Aziraphale offered his menu to the friendly waiter and watched Crowley do the same with a request for wine the waiter promised to return with shortly. Around them the quiet music and dull noise of a restaurant well-loved by generations past and present greeted him, filled to brim by the sounds of cutlery delicately clinking and distant laughter as people enjoyed each other’s company. With a smile Aziraphale hoped a blessing upon them all, for letting him be a guest within their world without a care to whom he had at, or on, his side.

It was simply a quaint, traditional-style Italian restaurant on a slow Wednesday where the waitstaff all knew them for their long visits and impeccable manners. Overhead the lights had been suspiciously dimmed to cast a warm, intimate glow despite it being only midday, and he curiously watched Crowley light and snuff out the candle at their table with his fingertip several times before he finally left it alone. It was unusual for them to go out for lunch on a weekday, for reasons which they had bickered about on whose fault it was the entire way here.

Regardless of fault, how they ended up here amounted to this.

Usually Crowley began making their lunch a few hours beforehand when he wanted to try a new recipe. This was signalled by the chaotic whirlwind the kitchen became that only Crowley himself knew how to navigate, having called for Aziraphale to come downstairs and taste the sauce he’d made. Aziraphale recalled making his way into to be confronted by the tall shadow of Crowley looming over him. Scuffs of flour were smeared across one sharp cheek and down his dark shirt, a vision even then when a long finger touched the collar of his shirt and tugged it aside to reveal the dark mark left from the night before.

Aziraphale merely raised a brow, and Crowley grinned.

Naturally things escalated as to be expected when they had quite a lot to make up for in regards to millennia of repressed love and attraction. And the world almost ending, that too. Crowley’s lips had sunk to his exposed neck, followed by a slither of dexterous fingers underneath the fine fabric of his waistcoat to tug from his trousers the hem of his shirt until impatience won out and he picked Aziraphale up. Soon enough they were upstairs in the bedroom and he’d been on his back as Crowley stretched over him and—

Aziraphale politely cleared his throat and took a sip of his newly arrived wine.

Well.

Suffice to say turning off the oven immediately became the last priority on either of their lists alongside watching the stove top before everything boiled over and ruined the rest of the meal. Upon their return downstairs, flushed and not quite fully put together they had been greeted by the oven just about ready to billow smoke everywhere and sauce splashed all over the floor and somehow on the ceiling. Crowley’s cooking now an obliterated mess, with the ingredients scattered about the kitchen in fact still remained that way even now after Crowley grabbed his keys and ushered Aziraphale out the door.

Across the table Crowley’s fingers rapped impatiently along the linen tablecloth as he looked around the restaurant while Aziraphale dipped his slice of bread into an herbal oil mixture. Idly he wondered if Crowley might replicate it for him in the future. It would be a better use for those restless hands, given what they had done to Aziraphale having led to why they now were here.

“My dear what has you so wound up,” Aziraphale began, taking a bite of his bread. Part of him knew it would be because Crowley’s mind - even if he refused to admit it - was on the botched meal. Such failures never sat well with the demon until he had the chance to recreate them.

“Haven’t done any mischief here in a while, not since we retired. Think I’ll make things interesting and have our waiter trip—”

“Crowley.”

“—and fall into the man of his dreams’ arms, angel.” Crowley grinned all white teeth and sharp fangs and yes, Aziraphale had interpreted correctly he had been thinking about the catastrophe earlier today. “You standing in the way of true love? With all those trashy romance novels you’ve got on your nightstand?”

“You are not funny, Crowley. I know exactly what you were doing.” Ever condemned to be teased by the demon, Aziraphale grumbled, his sympathy a touch diminished. He’ll be sure to get one in on Crowley eventually. “Besides, I will have you know those are literary classics and I read them for their continued relevance.”

“Makes sense I guess, sex is always relevant,” Crowley muttered into his wine glass.

Aziraphale flushed red-hot and opened his mouth to retort when at that exact moment the waiter returned with their meals, and found himself immediately enraptured by the array of dishes. Upon setting them down and offering the usual complements he walked off to leave them in barely contained peace. Crowley refrained from his teasing by biting his tongue and prepping his dish to Aziraphale’s exact preferences before he pushed it over without a word. Taking up his fork Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley, chin propped on one hand as he watched Aziraphale through dark sunglasses, the raised sharp brow belied by the soft, affectionate line of his mouth.

Still, even when incorrigible he always knew how to make Aziraphale’s heart flutter.

They dined together after that, heads tipped in close while discussing what repairs to make around the house, whether or not they should stop by the bookshop and collect a few editions Aziraphale wanted to reread. Aziraphale ate his decadent carbonera shrimp alfredo in quiet delight as Crowley talked about the trip south he had planned for them, twirling the thin strands around his fork as he commented on places he wanted to visit, dishes he wanted to try, so long as they were with Crowley.

A brief touch of cool fingers atop his own said all he needed to know about the things he wanted. He smiled, and Crowley poured more wine into each of their glasses as the conversation lulled.

“How’s the meal so far, angel.”

“Marvelous, I wonder if they hired a new chef. Previous one went a bit too enthusiastic on the oregano at times.” Aziraphale gathered another forkful, speared a small shrimp on the tines, then paused. “Would you care to try?”

A dark brow crept over the curved obscurement of Crowley’s sunglasses, and he twitched his head over his shoulder before he leaned across the table to grasp Aziraphale’s offered hand. The long, thick coil of Crowley’s tongue wrapped around to where Aziraphale’s shaking fingers pressed, and in one smooth pull he cleaned the fork. A quick squeeze of Aziraphale’s hand before he let go and leaned away, taking the surge he’d sent through Aziraphale with him.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale whispered, a touch breathless and not at all as scolding as he should be with how his heart hammered away within his breast, telltale blooms of heat threatening to surface upon his cheekbones. “Must you be so bold in public?”

Crowley dipped his chin to peek serpentine gold over the top of his sunglasses, and winked. The action full of enough meaning that Aziraphale cleared his throat behind the cloth napkin, aware of the flush now fully visible despite his attempts otherwise if how Crowley chuckled, a low noise in the back of his throat. No matter what Crowley has tried in vain to tempt him into, he remained committed to his claim he was not one for public demonstrations of, of such impropriety.

Devious, Aziraphale chided as his blush sent him hot underneath the collar, ignoring the immediacy to which he yielded once they were _behind_ closed doors. Once his heart calmed and his face cooled, Aziraphale continued on, letting his fork twirl through his pasta in slow, careful spirals. “Well, how did you like it?”

“S’alright,” Crowley finished his bite and settled back into his sprawl, a finger touched to the rim of his half-filled wine glass. “Mine’s better.”

This again. Loving a serpent demon came with learning how to do his own side step, especially on this territorial topic known as complimenting anyone else’s cooking. Of all the notions to latch on to, it was perhaps the most harmless he’s seen, even if it resulted in Aziraphale sitting at the table - or propped up in bed - longer than expected.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale replied as he brought the fork to his lips, then stopped, his tongue suddenly able to taste Crowley’s version throughout his palette. He thought carefully, turning the idea like a prism in his head as he finished the bite. “Yours tastes a bit different at times, though. I cannot help but wonder why.”

Crowley rolled his shoulders and cracked his long neck loud enough to horrify a nearby table. “It’s better, that’s why. Not to mention some of the stuff they put in this food can plaster your arteries, angel. Or Heaven knows what else.” Clearly Aziraphale’s coming retort already broadcast on his face, with the way Crowley waved a hand in the air in some vague gesture towards reason. “It’s all down to the ingredients and I pick better ones. Swap for wholegrain instead of the usual, maybe make some of that vegetable rice even though it tastes like paste but you’ve not noticed yet. So on. Everyone’s big on that sort of thing nowadays.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale tried, then closed his mouth. This would be a rather difficult conversation to navigate as he has in fact noticed, realising now why the most recent pasta dinner tasted rather off when paired with the marinara, a slightly nutty flavour having stuck to his palette afterwards until dessert. More memories filtered in after that of prior meals from Crowley’s conjuring to Aziraphale’s plate, all delicious indeed, that was not up for argument. However, they had been far, far to the left of Aziraphale’s expectation.

“Are you,” he took a breath to ease away the incredulity in his voice, some tumbling of emotions in his head. “Are you trying to make, er, healthy versions of what we order in restaurants?”

A grimace stole the pride from Crowley’s handsome face as he gestured a touch too casually between them towards the spread of their half-consumed meals. “You order, you mean. And these human cooks don’t care what ingredients they throw in so long as it comes out tasting fine. Drop a salt lick in if they could and then what.” Crowley talked faster now, words elongating in what Aziraphale knew as the clearest indication he was about to become defensive which was the exact opposite of what Aziraphale wanted him to feel. Especially with how a peculiar, shy-tinged warmth bloomed inside of Aziraphale that had nothing to do with starches or any other perceived threat Crowley had decided to protect Aziraphale from.

“My dear—”

“Figured I’d just try and do something that’s good for you, s’all.” Crowley ground out through the clench of his sharp fangs, as though he’d admitted to heinous deeds such as opening doors for Aziraphale and carrying in their groceries and holding him at night. When Aziraphale blinked at him, stunned, Crowley looked away, an uncomfortable flush squirming its way over the angles of his sharp face.

Aziraphale’s mouth opened, closed. A pinprick of emotion manifested within his throat, came to crystallise in the corners of his eyes that he discreetly brushed away upon the alarmed hiss Crowley made. He wondered if this could be what humans meant when they said food was made with love. Countless small details and efforts, all for a loved one in ways they’d never consider. It wasn’t the ingredients that made the difference, now how to explain this to Crowley?

“Oh, Crowley,” he squeezed Crowley’s hand, watched as both dark brows jumped over his sunglasses. “Thank you my dear, and I promise you do. You always take such incredible care of me, no matter what you make.”

Crowley grunted and said nothing in reply, but his grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightened as a broad thumb soothed along the top of Aziraphale’s plump hand. How lovely, Aziraphale smiled as he twirled another helping of pasta, to know their differences only lead to more ways in which they care for one another. 

He thought to share such a revelation with Crowley until the steady grip on his hand shifted into a pull for his attention and the press of thin lips touched to the corner of his mouth. With the slightest turn of his own head into it he sighed and heard Crowley inhale past the hiss of his long tongue, helpless to do anything else but let Crowley kiss him deeply, wholeheartedly. Around them the restaurant continued on as Crowley guided him through his adoration, imbued by its people telling one another ‘I love you’ in a million different ways, just like them.

When Crowley pulled away, Aziraphale decided that felt quite unacceptable, and he might need to take a leaf out of Crowley’s book by requesting they wrap up this meal sooner rather than later. This lasted until he looked back down at his plate, and filled his fork once more.

Perhaps next time.

Or once they arrived back home.

“Guess I can switch back to regular ingredients,” Crowley offered as he blatantly admired - to Aziraphale’s returning fluster - him take another bite wrapped around a quiet moan of delight. The forked tip of his tongue threatening to flick out in approval, barely restrained to only a dark bit of pink between his crookedly upturned lips. “Seems the result gets more of a reaction from you.”

“Now, let us not go that far,” Aziraphale offered a touch hastily, covering his mouth as a blush crept up his cheeks. He thought of the numerous meals Crowley’s created that were far better than anything currently on his plate, a strong preference to those fed from the demon’s own fork which then would be chased by a kiss or three. Whether or not it tasted better was an unimportant metric. It was the unending marvel of being the subject of such devotion after six thousand years convincing himself he did not need it, that how things were would be how they’d always continue on.

Times like these, with Crowley and his odd albeit earnest way of showing his own version of love, made Aziraphale relieved at how wrong he’d found himself to be. Aziraphale quickly glanced over to Crowley, his expression uncharacteristically open as he watched Aziraphale eat, and revelled in the warm coil of Crowley’s hand around his own.

He bit the inside of his cheek, then delicately cleared his throat.

“It is a delight to have you cook for me, you must know that. But I must say that as flavorful as your cooking is, my dear, there is no need to worry on your part since we angels do not have such issues.” Aziraphale watched from the corner of his eye as Crowley brought his wine glass up, humming in encouragement for him to continue.

“Yeah?”

“Quite.” He picked up his own wine glass, and allowed a silent beat to suspend between them.

“For example, I have no arteries to even be concerned with.”

It was glorious. Crowley immediately sucked half the glass of wine up his nose, dousing the rest all over his shirt as it seemed the blood in his own circulatory system halted. Around them the other patrons stared at the spectacle of Crowley in bemusement while Aziraphale watched Crowley wipe at the mess he’d made of himself in nothing but absolute delight.

“Angel,” Crowley rasped upon his next breath, sunglasses removed to reveal unblinking eyes watery and wide with concern. “What do you _mean_ you don’t have arteries.”

Aziraphale, a touch smug and even more so helplessly in love, merely took a sip of his wine.

He saw why Crowley enjoyed this so much.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
